Nonsense Verse
by Archedes
Summary: Once there was a crooked kindly town Where murders went up while crime went down. Akusai serial killer AU


There was a lot of blood. Like, if he had to put a definite numerical value to it, he'd say it was a metric fuckton. It was soaking into the bedspread—a dark stain slowing inching outwards towards the edge of the mattress. Probably soaked into the mattress too. It was amazing the stupid inane shit you noticed when you were in an objectively bad situation. There was a gaping hole where the face used to be, but what he thought was funny was how some of the teeth had landed on the pillow next to it in their own little personal pools of blood. There was a joke in there somewhere, but he could already hear the sirens and see the lights through the cheap blinds. The walls were so fucking thin in shitty motels like this. You'd think such a shady place would have a few more neighborly reservations when it came to reporting gunshots.

"Well," he said, not unkindly, to the body. It was sprawled out, arms akimbo like it was about to give him the lecture of a lifetime. That was funny too. "Looks like we're in quite a pickle, friend. Not sure how I'm gonna get out of this one." He paused for a second, squinting at the picture on the wall above the bed (your typical roach motel affair). Maybe he really was losing it. Here he was, cops about to burst through the door at any moment, talking to a fucking corpse. Even worse though (than losing his mind, that was) was that this meant Saïx had been right: he'd gotten sloppy, let himself get lured into a bad situation. He could already hear the heavy boots thundering down the hall, loud male voices shouting because the place was probably surrounded and who gave a fuck about subtlety when he had nowhere to escape to and they knew it.

He could have jumped out the window, but he was on the tenth floor and suicide wasn't really his style. "At least _you_ know I didn't do it," he said, patting the corpse's foot before wiping his hand off on his pants' leg. There was pounding on the door. It was so hard that when he turned to look, he could see the wood straining in the doorframe like it was moments away from splintering. Any second now it was going to give, and he was probably going to have like at _least_ five guys on him, what with no one around to report the police brutality they were sure to deliver express to his poor face. So he sat himself down on the bed next to the body's feet, rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, and he waited.

* * *

It all started when he—literally—ran into Sora at a local coffee shop and knocked the poor kid flat on his ass with some sweet-smelling drink spilling down the front of his goofy shirt that said something cheesy as fuck like "Smile! It's cheaper!" Out of all the fucking things (like the teeth on the pillow), he remembered that stupid shirt and the stupid smiling face on it, stained by the coffee while the kid whined a steady _ow ow ow ow ow ow darn it ow_ under his breath. Everyone else in the shop kind of looked over before going back to their iPads and Macs. He really hated coffee shops.

After making sure none of the coffee had gotten on _his_ shirt (which was less stupid and also _his_ and therefore of the most immediate importance), he'd offered a hand and helped haul him up. "Sorry." He didn't sound very sorry, and the look on the kid's face seemed to indicate that he had noticed.

"It's okay. Happens all the time," he responded with good humor nonetheless, living up heartily to his shirt's motto as he flashed a smile that stretched out the roundness of his cheeks.

"I'll buy you another coffee." He sure as hell wasn't going to be buying the kid a new shirt, so he offered this easily enough. Probably his fault anyway since he'd been thinking of roughly five _million_ other things when he walked into the shop, and not one of those five million things involved watching where he was going. "You're not _too_ burnt, are you?"

"No, I'm all right! Thanks! You really don't have to do this." But that really just implicated him even more since the other patrons were still eyeing them a little from the corners of their devices. With a little prompting, though, he got the kid to give his order to the cashier, and he didn't even know half the shit that was in it since he usually just walked in looking like a dead animal, said _give me something_, and the teenager on duty would just kind of get whatever with this mute trepidation which he still didn't really understand, but whatever. "I'm Sora, by the way. I think I've seen you around the station before. You're friends with Officer Saïx, right? He's always on campus busting parties and stuff."

"Yeah. Name's Axel. You're uh…" He remembered Sora's face in dim association with someone. It should be illegal for him to be expected to deal with shit like this first thing in the morning.

"Kairi! She's one of the dispatchers."

"Right." No idea. Was that the blonde one who always brought the doughnuts? He liked her.

The barista called, then, and Axel thought this meant he'd be relieved of his good Christian duty of replacing this kid's coffee. Unfortunately, Sora zipped right back to the table Axel'd slumped into, inviting himself to the seat across from him. He took a sip and winced. "Ohhh that's hot…ouch…" This was amazing. Kid was a trainwreck. Axel put his chin on his fist and just _marveled_.

"So! Are you a police officer too?" Sora asked brightly after he'd sufficiently recovered from his terrific lapse of judgement.

"Nah."

"Oh. What do you do, then?"

"Not much. Hey look, you know, it's been fun, but I got this thing I need to go do, so—"

"Right! Sorry! It was nice to meet you."

And that'd been it. Axel hadn't thought much of him at the time: a goofy college kid, harmless enough, aggressively friendly, whatever. He'd made it all the way back to his place before he realized that he didn't get any coffee for himself, and at that point he just flopped facedown onto the couch and bemoaned his existence. He always felt burnt out after a full night of Work: it was like a hangover minus the headache and plus a crippling lack of motivation to do much of anything. Caffeine made it easier. All they had at home was the instant shit, but it looked like he didn't have the luxury of being picky today.

Their apartment—Saïx's, really—was nice. Comfortable. Nothing like the high rise joints around the castle. That's how you could tell who the upper class types were: the farther you were from the castle, the less money you had. On the outskirts of the Garden was all the real squalor. The tenements and shacks and bodies sleeping (sometimes dead) in the gutters were the first things you saw coming into town. Welcome to Radiant Garden. Enjoy your stay. Coincidentally, that was where Axel's apartment was—more for Work than himself which was why he imposed himself upon Saïx's sometimes reluctant hospitality. Technically the place was under someone else's name, but Axel paid the bills for it. His three-room kingdom complete with rats and gnats and an unidentifiable black mold that was slowly taking over the shower no matter how much bleach he threw at it.

He must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing he knew, someone was coming in through the door and noisily fucking around with plastic bags. Saïx was saying something like "You were supposed to do groceries this week" while he opened and closed cabinets and drawers without any regard for the people trying to sleep around here.

"Must've slipped my mind." Axel watched with zero inclination of getting up to help, and then, perhaps a little too nonchalantly: "How're things at the precinct?"

Saïx paused for a moment and turned to look at him from the corner of his eye. He was always too quick for his own good, if you asked Axel. "Quiet."

"Strange. It's been a few days." Saïx was still staring, but he just rolled over onto his back without another word on the matter. Antagonizing Saïx was one of the few things in life that brought him joy with no mess and no fuss and no money spent. "What time is it?"

"Who is it?"

"Not sure. Maybe it was an out-of-towner, if it hasn't been reported yet. What's the time?"

"Six. Did you get rid of it?"

"Nah. I should probably take care of that, actually…" Saïx slammed the door of the fridge shut hard enough to cause one of the cereal boxes on top of it to fall over. Lips pursed, he reached up to fix it. "Don't get nervous on me. It's fine."

"I really don't have the words to express how much of an idiot you are. I believe I _told_ you to stop and let things calm down. Didn't I?" Saïx's tone was scathing as he cleared the table of the bags. His aggressive movements were dislodging various things—the salt and pepper shakers, that mysterious red solo cup that had been sitting there all week, the car keys, Axel's unopened tax returns—and the more shit that fell onto the floor, the angrier Saïx got. Axel was impressed. He must have had a bad day at work if he was getting fired up this easily.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Pop a Xanax and chill. It'll be fine. I'll take care of it and it'll be fine."

"_Didn't_ I?" He was definitely in the deep throes of one of his Moods now.

"_Yes_, you _did_. And _I'm_ telling _you_ it'll be fine. I'll take care of it tomorrow, all right? First thing in the morning, bright and early. I'll be up and at 'em before you even wake up, _all right_? You always do this."

"And _you_ never listen. You keep screwing around. You're going to ruin us both, and for what? Because you like to see me annoyed? Grow up." Then Saïx made for the bathroom. Axel sat up, and he waited until he could hear the water in the shower running.

* * *

The next day, he was on the couch watching television when he got a call from Saïx, and with the utmost of reluctance he put his pants on and took a bus down to the police station, earning a few dirty looks from some old women when he sat down and dropped the bag full of Saïx's shit onto the seat beside him. It wasn't like Saïx to be forgetful like this, so he was wondering what exactly he was in for here. The bag was full of case files or something, he assumed, since Saïx hadn't been particularly forthcoming on the phone. He figured it had something to do with the night before: Saïx had locked him out of the bedroom and Axel was stuck freezing his ass off on the couch for the evening because Saïx turned the heat off—whatever fucking moron designed the apartment thought it was a good idea to put the thermostat in the bedroom.

Thirty minutes later and he was strolling into the station and over to Saïx's desk where he was taking to a woman. The pencil skirt and unnervingly serious expression, Axel picked up on almost immediately, made her look like a lawyer. The two of them glanced over towards him only briefly before continuing their conversation. He felt like a kid waiting for the adults to finish talking, and that kind of pissed him off.

"—sick these past few weeks, and I understand you have been the one taking over for him?"

"Yes. Eraqus will be back soon, I imagine. Until then, I can answer your questions." Chief of police. Axel recognized the name, though he'd never met the guy.

"Thank you, but I'd rather wait." Axel noticed he'd gotten deodorant on his shirt this morning. God fucking damn it.

"Suit yourself." Saïx seemed annoyed—eyebrows slightly drawn, arms folded. The woman adjusted the strap of her briefcase, nodded, and tossed a quick, appraising look at Axel before taking her leave. "New assistant DA," Saïx said before Axel could ask.

"Ooh. Is that because of me?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

Axel put the bag on the desk, displacing a cup full of pencils that spilled all over some important-looking documents. Graphite skid marks abound. Saïx pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where's she from?"

"New York. Pick those up and leave."

"Big city gal, huh." Axel was all smiles now, carelessly stuffing the pencils back into the cup. He purposely put them so that some pointed up and some didn't—Saïx would be fixing it later, after he'd left. "Harvard?"

"I didn't ask."

"Well what about her name? Jesus, it's like you don't wanna help at all."

"Aqua."

"Oh, right. That explains the uh—" Axel pointed at his head, "—hair. Her parents must've had a real sense of humor."

Saïx—paying him only the smallest amount of attention—was going through the bag, wrinkling his nose every time he pulled a sheet of paper out. Some were a bit crushed from the bus ride. "Is this a peanut butter stain?"

* * *

"She's pretty cute, I _guess_. Seems like kind of a stick in the mud, though, you know what I mean?"

"Please—"

"I guess I just don't have time for people who don't know how to have fun. Work, work, work, work. Can't do it. Sometimes you just gotta let your hair down, right? Nothing wrong with enjoying your life."

"Oh god—"

"Oh, god, really. You're a pretty rude guy, you know? I'm trying to have a conversation here and it's like you don't give a shit. You just _do not_ give a shit what I have to say, do you?"

"Please, I'm sorry, just—"

"Man you will _not_ shut up, will you? Not everything's about you. You don't need to be talking every fucking second."

Silence.

"Anyway. As I was _saying_. This new ADA—seems like some fresh-outta-law-school upstart who thinks she's gonna change the world or some shit. Annoying. Can't even do anything about her or You Know Who'll lose his mind. He's kind of completely terrifying when he's mad though. I mean like, _really_ mad. Like actual, legitimate fury. I know you pissed yourself before—gross, by the way—but man you'd be a wreck if you saw him like that. Trust me, dude. I've been puttin' up with it for longer than I can remember and even I get freaked sometimes. He's a lot like that chick, you know—the type of people with eyes so sharp it's like they're stabbing you so they can see what pours out. Haha, kind of like what I did to you the other day, right? Wasn't that fun?"

No answer. The sobbing was starting to get on his nerves. He wiped his hands on his jeans and crouched down, nudging the guy's head with his knuckles. "Well, I had fun. You know, when I was a kid, I used to be a real cry baby. A lot like you're being right now, actually! And whenever I cried, my old man would take me out behind the garage and beat me with a tire iron. He'd say, 'you goddamn pussy, I'll give you something to cry about.' And he really did, oh boy. He gave me enough to cry about for three days straight."

"Please, god, please. I'll do anything just—please don't—"

"There you go again. Interrupting me. Why don't I give you something to cry about, then. What's your name again? Tom?"

"No—"

"Okay, Tom. Let's give you something to cry about." He stood up. "I'm a little unprepared at the moment—planned on doing this later and all but the wife was getting on my dick about it and you know how that goes. Bear with me, would you?"

Tom tried to say something, but at this point he was an incoherent mess, past the point of no return like a rabid dog that lost all its sense right before the end. He was a choking, trembling mess on the floor, caked in week old blood and piss. Someone from out of town. Sure picked a bad time to come and visit. The walls of Axel's apartment were thin—both of his neighbors could hear everything, if they wanted to. But they didn't. That's why he picked this place—the fucking edge of the world, the congregation of trash from Radiant Garden that had fallen on the wayside and accumulated around the edges like a scum ring in a toilet. People here were beaten down so often and so thoroughly nobody had any energy left to poke their noses in what didn't concern them.

The table in the kitchen—the whole apartment was the kitchen, really. The only other "room" (as in four walls and a door) was the bathroom. Everything else was open, putrid air. Anyway. The table was actually one of those folding card tables your dad took out for poker nights with the guys—cheap beer, cheap cigars, the whole deal. On the table were some rusted cutlery, a bit of rope—the thick kind that chafed like a bitch, supposed to be used for rock-climbing but Axel had a creative soul, deep down—and half a bone saw. Snapped in half last month. He'd wanted to replace it for Tom, but time and Saïx's mood permitting, he didn't have the time for it.

A bit of newspaper was sticking to his shoe—the floor was covered in them, though he figured people'd been bleeding out on these grimy floorboards long before he'd signed the lease. He picked up the saw, turned it over, ran his finger across the jagged edge where it had broken. The newspapers were rustling as the guy squirmed, arms bound behind him. He looked sort of like a fish, flopping around on his stomach. Axel watched for a few minutes, still holding the saw, and he thought about how to begin. He had a creative soul. He liked to try different things. Saïx's nagging, at the back of his mind more than he would ever admit, was taking some of the fun out of it. Fucking typical.

When he crouched again, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, Tom tried to crawl away. In his eyes was something wild—some crazed, animal fear. Couldn't blame the guy, all the shit he'd been through this past week. When the teeth of the saw grazed the back of his neck, Tom jerked violently to the side, and the crying grew louder. "Hold still. You should probably know I've never done anything like this before. It should be fine, though…" Axel braced his other hand on the back of Tom's head, forcing him to old still while he squeezed one eye shut and tried to line the saw up with the middle of his neck, halfway between his skull and shoulders. "I dissected a cat once in bio, when I was 16, so it'll be fine. Most likely. Shut up for two secs, all right? Here we go."

Applying pressure, he sawed once in a swift forward motion. Blood—looked black in the dim light—welled up around the teeth, trickled down the sides in thin, spiderlike rivulets. Tom thrashed, legs kicking as he writhed back and forth as he choked up something. Must've bitten his tongue. "You're being a real sport. A real good sport." He fixed his grip before pulling the saw back, and this time he didn't pause before going on. The room was overflowing with these screams that, every so often, broke off in grotesque phlegmy sobs. With half a saw, he would be here all night trying to do this. He couldn't afford to take his time. Unfortunately.

When he hit the spine, everything grinded to a stop as the teeth—duller than they ought've been, he realized only now—dug fast and firm into the bone. Tom wasn't making any more noise. His chin was stained with blood, and there was a bit of _something_ peeking out from between his split lips. Axel moved his hand from his head to his face, forcing open his mouth with a sick curiosity. "Damn." His tongue was hanging together by one very small, very sorry-looking piece of flesh. Axel snapped his fingers a few times in front of his face with no response, though when he checked his pulse, there was a sluggish heartbeat.

His arm had gotten a bit sore, but he pressed on. It was quiet, now, save for the steady sound of the saw working its way through the bone. Getting impatient, he got down on his knees, hand on Tom's head again as he put the whole weight of his body onto the saw. If the neck ever snapped, he didn't notice. In the hallway, he could hear a couple arguing as they passed the apartment door.

"—rent isn't going to fucking pay itself, you cheap bastard—"

"—good enough for you, then maybe you oughta just go back home to mommy and—"

"—gave up everything for a sorry sonovabitch like you—"

He started whistling as the voices faded, arm cramping up again. Some song he'd heard on the radio though he could only remember how the chorus went, so he went with that and repeated it over and over. By the time he got all the way through, the sun had already finished setting outside the apartment's solitary window—night sky with its lonely collection of sparse stars peeking through the smudged glass.

The expression on Tom's face was something else: half-lidded eyes, tongue hanging out of his mouth. He laughed, had to stuff the back of his hand into his mouth to muffle it before it became downright hysterical. Some blood got on his lips, and it tasted sour.

The big black garbage bags were under the sink. He manipulated the body into a fetal position and tied it in place with what was left of the rope—wrists bound to ankles, knees tucked tight against the chest. Then he double-bagged it like his mother always taught him to do when the trash was too full. For the moment, the head was left alone, blood from the stump soaking into the newspaper as it sat there, watching in stupid silence as Axel knotted the plastic. It was a short walk from here to the trash chute, then it was all out of his hands. Maybe he'd hang onto the head for a little while. He picked it up by the hair—conveniently tied back in a ponytail, imagine that—and examined it, thought about where the hell he'd put it and how much of a fit Saïx would pitch if he found out about it.

For now, he put it on a plate and stuck it in the mold-crusted fridge that had probably been used by tenants dating all the way back to the 50s. Tom peered out, slackjawed and dumb, between a carton of milk and a Tupperware of what used to be potato salad, but it had been in there so long that hell if Axel could remember. The bloodied newspapers got their own garbage bag, and down the chute they went. Saïx would say it was reckless to do it like this; Axel did it often out of laziness. By the time the body got to the dump and was discovered, there would just be no way to tell which piss poor tenement building it'd come from.

* * *

He kept the bleach next to the shower because the tiles always had this pink tint to them afterwards. It was a quarter to midnight by the time he was done scrubbing.


End file.
